Weather the Storm
by RhymeAndTreason
Summary: Marth goes missing after a mudslide caused by a sudden storm separates him from his guards. Minerva sets out to find him.
1. Gathering Clouds

**Be the rarepair content you want to see in the world!**

 **Well, actually, I would prefer if somebody else was the rarepair content I want to see in the world. Reading my own writing isn't as much fun. But the writing itself is good practice, and hopefully will maybe get other people into the ship?**

 **... Probably not.**

 **The story uses elements from the FE1 manga, but only lightly. Even if you haven't read the manga, it shouldn't be a problem. Also, I proofread this late at night, so there's probably a lot of errors I missed! Oh well!**

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The crack of lightning split the sky in twain. A deafening thunderclap followed. Rain poured fiercely and unceasingly from the seemingly endless sea of black clouds. The wind howled. Mudslides and fallen trees made what little solid ground there was in the marshes below all but impassable.

No human being ought to be out in this kind of weather. It would like as not be a death sentence. Anyone who lived out here in northern Altea would know that fact well from experience. Such storms came around about at least once a year and wrought devastation. Any sane man would take shelter in his home, and remain there until the skies cleared once more.

The lone rider passing by on reptilian wings was not a man, and right now she wondered if she was truly sane. She was Minerva the Red Dragoon, Crown Princess of Macedon, and she had her reasons for taking flight on such a dismal day.

She and her sister Maria had arrived in Anri, capital of Altea, early that morning for a diplomatic visit. The trip had luckily been an uneventful one, and indeed had gone so smoothly that they had arrived a day early. As a result of that, Crown Prince Marth had not been present to greet them. He had been visiting a small town to the north for a celebration of some important historical event, and wasn't expected back until that evening. It hadn't been long afterwards that news had arrived of a terrible and sudden storm that, among other things, had separated Marth from his entourage. Now the prince was missing, and potentially endangered. Minerva had volunteered her aid in finding him and getting him safely home immediately and without hesitation, and was on wing within the hour.

"I'm certain you'll find the prince unhurt," Sir Arran had told her, "Marth knows the area and its dangers well. He will have taken shelter somewhere safe, perhaps with a local family. Still, it would give us all great peace of mind if you could find him and bring him back to us."

And Minerva was the only one who could. Going on foot would be suicide, horseback even more so. Pegasi would be unable to navigate the storm. Only a wyvern rider could defy the tempest, and Altea had none of her own.

Astride the back of her faithful mount, she flew low to the ground. Though she had dispensed of most of her usual metal accoutrements, she was still wary of the possibility of a lightning strike. She had no desire to die here today. And in any case, she was more likely to spot her quarry from closer to the ground.

So far, however, she had had no luck. Hours spent searching in this miserable mire, torrential rain, and deathly cold, and she had nothing to show for it save several tears in her raincoat, a thick coating of mud on both herself and her mount, and a strong desire for a warm meal and a comfortable bed. She imagined that the sun was likely setting by this point, but underneath the impenetrable cloud cover, it was impossible to tell and made little difference. No sunlight could ever hope to pierce the stormclouds; the only illumination came from the lantern hanging from Minerva's belt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of bright blue. She bade her mount to land, then quickly dismounted, so as to take a closer look. Her boots sank deep into the heavy mud, and each step closer was labored. The rain came down so thick that it was difficult to see, and her lantern could only do so much against the darkness. The wind threatened to sweep her off her feet, and the only thing keeping her hood in place was her steady grip.

"Prince Marth! Are you there?" Had she found him at last? Was it finally over? Minerva had hoped the same things the last ten times she had put her feet to the ground, and had little hope left for this time. Perhaps she should turn around, come back when the storm had passed. Perhaps there was nothing more she could do out here. But no. What if Marth was hurt, or even dying out here? Minerva would never forgive herself if that were to happen when she could have done something to save him.

There! She'd once more caught sight of the blue something, which she now recognized as a piece of torn cloth caught on a tree branch. It was a miracle the wind hadn't blown it away.

A few more steps, and she was close enough to take it in her gloved hands. She turned it over. The other side of the cloth was red, the same as Marth's cape. This, then, was likely a piece of that cape. But where was its owner? He had to be somewhere nearby. There was no way _anyone_ could have gotten far in this morass.

Minerva took her lantern into her hands and raised it into the air.

"Prince Marth!" She called out, "Prince Marth! Are you there?" But, alas, she received no response. The only sounds were the wind and deafening rain. Even if he had been nearby, it wasn't very likely that she'd have heard him over that cacophony – or that he'd have heard her.

With a sigh, she hooked the lantern back onto her belt, then turned to climb back on her wyvern and take to the air once more. If she simply circled the area, she was sure that she would find Marth in short order. Assuming, of course, that he wasn't already dead and buried beneath the mud. No. No. She had to believe that he was still out there somewhere. She could not countenance the idea that Prince Marth of Altea, the Star and Saviour, the legendary hero who had freed the continent from Dolhr's vile clutches, was dead. She simply could not. She refused to accept the possibility that the man she-

Minerva shook her head. No, no more thinking about that. It was pointless and only served to distract.

Her wyvern beat its massive wings and lifted into the air. It was most fortunate that unlike pegasi, wyverns weren't bothered overmuch by the rain. On the other hand, it was most _un_ fortunate that the cold was making her reptilian companion tired and sluggish.

It wouldn't be much longer. She'd soon find Marth, and then they could be home, warm and dry.

Another bolt of lightning struck. Somewhere nearby, judging by how closely the thunderclap followed. It took a moment for Minerva's ears to stop ringing.

The fire in her lantern sputtered, but stayed lit. It seemed even enchanted fire cast by Sir Merric had its limits, and now the fire in her lantern was approaching them. She had no idea how long she'd been flying, exactly, and no way of knowing how close it was to the end of the flame's lifespan as promised to her by its maker. Minerva could only hope it would be long enough to find Marth.

It was then that she noticed something that she hadn't before. A tiny, weak light in the distance. She could not make out what it was, but it seemed wise to investigate.

As she flew closer, the source of the light gradually became clearer. A building of some sort, atop a hill. A house - no, an inn. It was an old building, but weathering the storm remarkably well. It had clearly been built by someone who was used to northern Altea's storms and knew well how to withstand them. Perhaps Marth had taken shelter there. If nothing else, it was possible that someone there had seen him and could direct her towards him.

Minerva landed her wyvern before the inn's front door with as much delicateness as could be wrung out of a massive reptilian beast and dismounted. She took a moment to rub the top of the creature's head and thank it for its service. Just because it was an animal did not mean that it was any less miserable than she was, especially after having been flying through the storm for hour after hour.

Just as she was reaching out to open the door, a sharp pain shot through her side, and she doubled over, cursing under her breath. An old wound from the War of Shadows that had never quite healed properly. Most of the time, however, it posed no problem and was simple to ignore. Why did it have to act up here and now? Her only consolation was that the mad mage who had given her the wound was long dead. Damn Klaus. She only regretted that she had not been the one to kill him.

Minerva grit her teeth, and forced herself to stand despite the pain. She would not allow herself the luxury of collapsing in pain until she could be sure that Marth was safe.

She reached out with one unsteady hand, and twisted the doorknob. Locked. Steadying her arm, she reached out again and knocked.

Then she waited.

After a few moments of nothing, she knocked again, more insistently. A moment later, the click of a lock heralded the opening of the door.

She locked eyes with a pot-bellied, aging man, whose eyes widened at the sight of Minerva. It was understandable, really. She was quite a mess. She imagined that she probably looked more like some kind of mud-wrought monster than a human being.

Before Minerva even had a chance to explain her intentions, she was ushered into the inn, seated at a table, and promised food. She tried to interject that she had come here looking for someone, but was simply shushed and told to wait until after she was warm and dry. All attempts to object went unheard.

Sighing, Minerva doffed her coat and reclined slightly in her seat. The man – the innkeeper, apparently - had already disappeared, gone into the kitchen to acquire food for the weary traveller. Would he expect payment? Probably. Altea had a generally generous culture, but she had never known a businessman to pass up a chance to make some coin. Well, that was no trouble at all, for she had plenty of money.

She took a moment to survey the area. The dining room was full of men and women trapped there by the storm. Most were quietly biding their time, while some were grumbling into mugs of beer, and others offered prayers to the Twelve Gods that they would safely see the end of the storm. Most looked to be from other parts of Altea, or perhaps Gra, likely in town for the same celebration that Marth had been attending. Others wore the faces and clothes of other cultures – a few Archaneans in their ostentatious clothes, some rough-dressed Talysians, a noble-looking Aurelian, and even two fur-clad frontiersmen. Minerva could not begin to guess at the reasons for their presences. Travellers of some kind, certainly, but their reasons and their destinations were enigmatic, and she would just as soon leave it that way. She was content to remain ignorant, feeling that just as she would prefer to be left to her own devices, so too would they.

Unconsciously, she laid a hand on her side, where her wound still pained her, and grit her teeth. It hurt a little less now than it had outside, though. Perhaps the blessed warmth had done some good.

Minerva closed her eyes. God, but she was exhausted. If she could've, she would've rented a room and crawled into bed right that very second, but finding Marth had to be her first priority. She still felt sorely tempted to do it anyway. At the very least, she could make the concession of getting a hot meal in her belly before she set out again. That would be fine, would it not?

Perhaps afterwards she ought to go calling in the local villages. If Marth could not be found in the wilderness, he might be-

"Princess Minerva!?" Gasped a familiar voice, cutting across her thoughts like a knife, "What are you doing here? … Wait, are you hurt!?"

Minerva's bleary eyes blinked open and turned to see the one speaking to her.

And there he was. Prince Marth of Altea, entering the room from the adjoining kitchen. He wore an apron, and carried with him a large bowl of some kind of stew. He rushed toward her, nearly spilled the stew all over the floor, and walked mindfully for the remaining half of the distance.

"No… no, I'm alright. Old wounds, that's all," Minerva assured Marth. He set the bowl down in front of her and gave her a concerned glance, but said nothing.

"As for why I'm here… Well, I came to find you. When we received word that you had been separated from your guards in a rainstorm, I worried that you might be hurt, so I set out to rescue you. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you're safe. But… if I may ask… how did you come to be _here_? And working the kitchen, no less!"

"For me? I'm grateful, but you really needn't've gone to so much effort for my sake. It can't have be worth all the toil and trouble you must've been through. I mean, look at you! I don't mean to be rude, but you look… well, awful. What happened to you out there? Are you sure you're alright?"

Minerva laughed a throaty, slightly wheezing laugh.

"I've just been tumbling about in the muck and rain for far too long, really. I'm not hurt at all. And don't sell yourself short like that, Marth. Your safety is worth more than I could ever give. Now, I don't believe you answered my question, did you?"

"Ah, yes," Marth said, looking suitably bashful, "well, after I got separated from Cain and the others, I was stumbling around lost for some time, but luckily I came across this inn, and the owner was kind enough to take me in. He said that I needn't pay him back, but I insisted, and while he still refuses to accept any money, he has accepted my service. So… here I am. I'm sorry that you went to so much effort for my sake, when I was safe and dry the entire time." The apologetic look on Marth's face annoyed Minerva. The damn fool was always like this.

"Oh, don't apologise. What if something _had_ happened to you? I never would have been able to live with myself if I thought I could've saved you. And if I hadn't come looking, I'd have been sick to death with worry until you returned. It matters not one bit if you really were hurt or not. Besides, just being able to see you safe and sound with my own eyes does my heart no end of good. You're…" Minerva trailed off. She had never been good with emotions and was even worse with talk of them. Saying this was difficult for her. "… precious to me. To many people. Don't you ever forget that."

Marth smiled at that, and all the annoyance Minerva had built up vanished. That damn smile…

"Well, I, um, I'm flattered! Thank you for your kind words, Minerva. Now, you'd best eat up before that stew gets cold. I'm sure you'll appreciate a nice warm meal after being out in the storm so long!" Marth said, gesturing towards the bowl, "You rode your wyvern here, didn't you? I'll make go and make sure he gets safely into the stables for the night."

"Hold on. For the night?" Minerva raised an eyebrow. She had no intention of staying that long. Marth, however, was already at the door.

"Yes, of course! Do you really expect me to let you go back out there in that condition? You're getting a good night's rest before we leave… And no protesting!" And with that, Marth donned a coat and stepped out the door, leaving Minerva no opportunity to argue.

Did she really look that bad? Well, there was no way to argue with someone who wasn't there, so Minerva turned to the stew he had given her and began to eat. As she spooned the beef, potatoes, and broth into her mouth, she began to notice that she was feeling far more tired than she had realized. Now that she had stopped for a moment, all the exertion was catching up with her.

Minerva yawned loudly, and was mortified. A few people turned to look, briefly, before turning back to whatever they were doing. No one, it seemed, particularly cared.

Perhaps Marth had a point about staying the night. This suddenly all-consuming lethargic feeling… Minerva hoped that she hadn't come down with some kind of sickness. _That_ would be quite an unfortunate end to this whole mess.

Still, Marth was safe. That knowledge alone was worth all the effort it had taken to get it. Knowing it gladdened her heart beyond all words and put her at ease. Though exhaustion made her shoulders heavy, it still felt as though a great weight had been lifted from them.

… And this stew was delicious. Had Marth made it himself? She didn't know whether he knew how to cook or not. In any case, she would have to thank him for it. She hadn't eaten anything since early in the day.

Minerva yawned again, more quietly. Her head felt so, so heavy all of a sudden…

When Marth returned, he found Minerva almost nodding off into her empty bowl. Smiling gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you want me to show you to a room? You look like you're asleep on your feet." He asked, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

"… Yes, thank you." Sighed Minerva, relenting to the idea of staying the night, as she accepted Marth's proffered hand with one of hers and rubbing her eyes with the other.

They walked slowly and in silence around a corner, down a hallway, and up a flight of stairs to the inn's second floor. Minerva, peering down the two hallways that stretched out from the landing, noted that there were fewer rooms than she would have expected. The rooms were in fact fewer in number than the people she had seen on the ground floor. Was there even space for her? Accounting for people who would room together and the possibility of people already abed, she doubted there was a room free.

Before she could voice her concerns, Marth began to speak.

"You know, I've always admired you, Minerva. Would that I could be more like you are!"

Minerva's entire train of thought was completely derailed by this bolt-from-the-blue statement.

"Me? But why? Surely, a hero like you…" Through the fog of her exhaustion-addled mind, she was most puzzled. She could not think of a single way in which she outshone Marth. None that mattered, at least.

"You're so much _stronger_ than I am, Minerva. In fact, you're the strongest person I know. But me, I'm not strong at all. I have always relied on the strength of others, rather than standing on my own. Look at today, for instance – were it not for the kindness of the innkeeper, I might well have died out there in the tempest. And you! … You were out there in the mud and wind and rain and cold for hours on end… all for my sake. All because I was imperiled."

"I… you aren't…" Minerva knew that Marth was wrong, that he was as strong as she was. Stronger, even. She wanted nothing more than to tell him so, but her somnolent brain could not string together the words to explain why, no matter how hard she tried. Instead, fractured sentences punctuated by yawns stumbled out of her mouth.

Marth seemed to understand what she was trying to say, but aside of a sad smile, he did not acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry. You don't want to listen to me ramble about my weakness," was all he said.

He walked ahead, and pushed open the door at the furthest end of one hallway, before beckoning Minerva to enter.

The room seemed cozy enough. A well-kept bed stood beneath a window on the far side, with a little table beside it. There was an oil lamp on the bedside table, but it was unlit, leaving the room mostly in darkness. In one corner stood an open closet, inside of which hung… Marth's cape?

"I'm sorry, there aren't any free rooms, so we'll have to share."

"How… unchivalrous," Minerva smiled wryly. The effect was slightly ruined by the yawn that came immediately after.

"Oh, no, no, don't worry. I'll sleep on the floor. There are some spare blankets I can borrow. You know me well enough to know that I would never do anything untoward to you, surely?"

Minerva mulled that over for a minute and despite, or perhaps because of, her somnolence, came to a decision.

"No," She said.

"What?" Marth's eyes widened.

"The bed is large enough for the both of us. There's…" Minerva interrupted herself to yawn, "There's no reason that you should have to sleep on the floor."

"Oh, you meant…!" Marth looked relieved, "No, no, I will be fine on the floor. A man like me climbing into bed with a woman might be a little untoward, don't you think?"

"Not if you don't make it so," said Minerva in a tone that, despite the drowsy slur, brooked no disagreement.

Marth disagreed anyway.

"No, no, I couldn't…"

"Hmph," huffed Minerva. Marth was bashful to a fault, and she found it irksome. Minerva had lived as a soldier in a harsh and mountainous land, and had little care for modesty compared to practicality – though she might have thought twice about it had she been more wakeful. Rather than continue to argue, however, she began to strip off her clothes in preparation for bed. Her movements were sluggish, but the process was still quick enough. First her coat was hung somewhat haphazardly in the closet, and it was followed shortly by her shirt and trousers, which left her in only her underclothes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marth flush fiercely and look away.

Now that she was prepared for sleep, she walked over to Marth, wrapped an arm firmly around his waist, and forcibly hauled him into bed with her. He protested the whole way, but did not struggle, for he knew that he had no chance of breaking Minerva's grip. He had said it himself only a scant few minutes ago, that he could never hope to match Minerva's strength.

"There is no reason you should have to sleep on the cold hard floor when there is a perfectly good bed right here," She flatly declared.

Her hold on Marth did not loosen at all as she dragged him into bed and pulled the blankets over top of them. By this point, Marth had quite given up resisting and had resolved to simply maintain his dignity as best as he could and fall into slumber as soon as possible.

Minerva smiled. This was quite a petty example in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes, Marth's self-sacrificing nature was troubling. Always so determined to place others first that he sometimes forgot to place himself at all. It was a good thing he was surrounded by friends who would be sure to see to it that he took care of himself. A role Minerva was more than happy to fill.

Her last conscious thought as she almost instantly drifted into the sleep of the just was that Marth's face, already beautiful, was made all the more so when graced by the serene expression it wore in repose.

Marth, however, had not yet reached the sandman's arms - though with his eyes tightly shut and his breathing carefully forced to be even, he was certainly trying. Minerva's grip had not slackened in the least, despite her slumber, and so he was trapped uncomfortably close to her.

He was painfully aware that if Minerva pulled him any closer, his face would end up right between her breasts, and he tried very hard not to think about that. Unfortunately, other unwelcome thoughts invaded his mind instead. For instance, _"what, really, are my feelings toward Minerva?"_ He had called it admiration, but the way his heart fluttered when she was near spoke of other, deeper feelings. This was the first time he had seen her since the War of Shadows, and emotions that had been buried in wartime fountained forth in peacetime.

It was no surprise that he felt _something_ towards Minerva; she was a heroic figure. A woman of strength and steel, of conviction and purpose, and she let nothing stand in her way. Her heart sometimes seemed hardened and bitter, for she carried such sadness in that heart, but beneath the surface she was one of the most loving people Marth knew. And she was… so beautiful, Marth thought. Not in the classical way, but a way of her own. She was tall and muscular, far moreso than he was, and she was covered in scars. To some, that might have been a blemish, but to Marth it was the most beautiful thing about her. Her scars were the physical proof of everything she had given and all the pain she had taken for the sake of her ideals and for the sake of her country and for the sake of those she loved.

He could not help but wonder what it might be like, to sleep like this every night. Held safe in Minerva's strong arms, kept warm by the heat of her body. Wouldn't it be so wonderful?

It felt like it must be love. But was it true love, or a passing infatuation? Was it simply intense admiration that he had mistaken for something else?

And, even if it was love he felt, could it ever be reciprocated? Minerva had long been a friend and trusted ally to Marth. Had she ever desired to be something else? Would she? And even if she were to become his lover, could he be sure it wasn't merely political? Much of the continent revered him as a hero, and Macedon's precarious place in the world meant it was always happy to have strong or influential allies. Did he actually think Minerva was capable of such duplicity? No, of course not. But anxiety was rarely a logical thing…

In spite of his worries, Marth's consciousness eventually faded into the peaceful black.

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Downstairs, the innkeeper smiled slyly to himself. After the prince and his lady friend had disappeared upstairs and failed to come back down, he had reached a logical – albeit completely incorrect – conclusion about just what was happening up there, in the privacy of their shared room.


	2. Under the Weather

**I am really not satisfied with this chapter. It feels to me like nothing happened, no progress was made. But I don't know how to fix that, so I'll just get it out and work on making the next one better.**

 **... Oh, yeah, also, I'm not dead! Just started university and that plus my ADD made it difficult to get a whole lot of writing done.**

 **Just like the last chapter, I proofread this pretty late at night, so be aware of that. Also, this chapter introduces a minor OC and gives a name to the innkeeper. they won't be particularly important. Don't mind them.**

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Minerva awoke the next morning to darkness, howling wind, and a strange pressure against her chest. Or what she assumed was morning, at least. The storm hadn't passed, and the thick clouds made it difficult to tell where in the sky the sun was – or even if it was in the sky at all.

At first, she was confused, as one often is upon waking up in an unfamiliar bed. After a moment, however, the grogginess that clouded her mind began to fade, if only slightly, and she remembered the events that had lead up to this.

Her cheeks reddened slightly. Had she not been so tired, had she been thinking a little bit more clearly, she might have hesitated a little before dragging Marth into bed with her. Or at least she might have found some kind of nightdress to wear (although admittedly, from where, she had no idea), rather than hugging Marth against her mostly-naked body.

Speaking of that…

Minerva looked downwards, and at last she realized what the pressure she had been feeling was. Rather than, as she had assumed, loosening when she fell asleep, her grip on Marth had only tightened, and at some point in the night she had, unconsciously, pulled him quite tightly against her body. To the point where his face was buried in her chest, in fact.

The red colour that lightly dusted her cheeks deepened a little.

Carefully and quietly, so as not to wake the still-sleeping prince, she extricated her arm from around him and pulled herself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

She glanced over her shoulder out the window, and worried. It was hard to tell from the safety of the inn, but the storm looked to have only gotten worse as she slept. In particular, the howling wind, which had not been audible from inside last night, sounded like it might be bad enough that her wyvern wouldn't be able to safely fly. That she and Marth might be forced to stay even longer than they had planned, which was already longer than Minerva had initially planned, was a concern.

Rather than dwell on that, she turned her gaze on Marth, and saw that he was smiling happily in his sleep. It took some effort not to snort at that.

"Having pleasant dreams of soft things, are you…?" Minerva softly muttered.

Still, the smile was infectious, and looking at the serenely sleeping prince was calming, so Minerva couldn't help but smile softly herself. Right now, Marth seemed so small, so fragile. Like a glass figure that would be shattered if she were too incautious around it. And yet, there he was, smiling in his sleep, without a care in the world.

She could not help but wonder what it might be like, to wake like this every morning. Opening her eyes to Marth's wonderful smile, knowing that the man she loved was happy and safe. It couldn't be anything but wonderful.

And, yes, she was in love with him. She wasn't afraid to admit that to herself. Marth was a hero. A knight in shining armour and a charming prince, like something out of the fairy-stories Minerva had never had the time or patience for as a child. He was charismatic and beautiful and _oh_ so kind; his strength of heart was unmatched by any. In Minerva's mind, Marth represented everything she wished to be, and never could. She was stony, warlike, and unkind where he was open-hearted, idealistic, and charismatic. He was a man of peace who would surely go on to even greater things in the future, and she, a woman of war who would, with any luck, never see another battle.

She'd never admit aloud that she loved Marth, however. Marth had so much boundless love in his heart, but not the kind Minerva sought from him. Minerva knew full well that Marth loved her, but only in the way Marth loved all of his friends. And she didn't even deserve that, if she was being honest.

No, it was for the best she kept her silence. To break that silence would only lead to broken hearts. Hers, for being rejected by her love, and Marth's, because of his thrice-damned empathy. His heart would break for hers; it would tear him up inside to wound her like that, but he neither could he ever falsely claim to love someone.

So she would be content to merely stand behind him. Support him. Fight for him. Bleed, kill, or die for him, if need be. She would protect him, protect his happiness. That was as close as she would ever need.

Or, at least, that was what Minerva had convinced herself would happen to justify her own reticence.

Behind her, there was a stirring and groaning. While she had been staring at the wall, lost in thought, Marth had awoken.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Greeted Minerva, raising her voice a little to be heard over the wind.

"Ah… Good morning, Minerva. Yes, just fine, thank you." Marth mumbled his words a little, still drowsy, as he pulled himself out of bed and onto his feet.

"The storm's still going," Worried Minerva, as if Marth wouldn't be able to tell.

"Ah, well, that's to be expected, really. These storms can last quite a while. Still, if you think we ought to be going, than I'm quite willing to." Marth explained as he walked around to the other side of the bed and sat beside Minerva.

Minerva looked out the window again.

"Hmm. I'm not sure that's a possibility. I doubt my wyvern will be able to safely fly in such strong winds. We may be stuck here a while longer." Her voice was calm, but inwardly Minerva was growling at this second delay. She hadn't minded the first delay so much – a long rest in a warm bed had been something she direly needed, and it had only been a delay of some eight hours. This? There was no way of knowing when the wind would let up. It might well be an entire extra day.

"How long do these usually last?" Asked Minerva, "The storms, I mean."

"Usually, only a couple of days, but there are records of it lasting more than a week. I hope everyone back home aren't worrying too much…" Marth didn't sound particularly concerned about the possibility of being stuck here an entire week, but Minerva was aghast.

"A wee- achoo!" Minerva's dismayed exclamation of surprise was cut short by a sudden sneezing fit, "that- achoo!"

"Minerva? Are you feeling well?" Marth, bless his heart, was quite worried. Minerva had written off the languidness plaguing her this morning as merely her needing longer to properly wake up, but it could very well be some kind of sickness. On the other hand, there were other things that could cause her to sneeze, and she would much prefer to believe that it was nothing.

"I'm fine. Just… dust, or something. Surely. More importantly, did you just say that these storms can last a week? Is there even- will the inn's supplies last that long?"

Marth had the gall to laugh. It was not a mocking laugh, it was bright and pleasant, but it was still rather poorly timed.

"Don't worry. There's enough food and candles to see us through, and then some. These storms are normal for this part of Altea, so the people who live here know well enough how and when to prepare. Nothing to worry about!"

Whatever response Minerva might have given was cut off by another sneeze. And then another.

"Are you sure you aren't feeling a little poorly?" Marth questioned.

"I am _fine_. Now, do you have any spare clothes that would fit me?" Minerva shrugged his hand off and rose to her feet, "I'm afraid mine will need hours of cleaning before th-" Not a second after she had stood up, she was attacked by a sudden rush of dizziness. Minerva clutched her head in her hands and-

"Minerva!"

Her mind blanked. The next thing she knew, she was lying in Marth's arms, just barely off the ground. It didn't take a genius to understand that she had just blacked out.

"Do you think you can stand?" Marth worried.

Minerva made a long, low, groaning sound in response. She had intended for it to be a coherent sentence, but her vocal cords refused to obey her.

"Okay," Said Marth. With much less exertion than might have been expected from his thin frame, Marth lifted Minerva into the air and laid her down on the bed. With the utmost care, he placed her head on the pillows and pulled the blankets over top of her. Minerva tried to protest, but the power of speech hadn't quite returned to her yet.

"You stay there and rest. And try to stay warm as best you can! I will go downstairs and see about getting you some breakfast. I'll be back in but a moment."

Marth found the ground floor still largely in darkness, save for a small light from the kitchen. The other guests, then, had yet to wake.

He made straight for the kitchen, where the innkeeper's wife – Kadienne – was preparing a rather large pot of porridge in preparation for breakfast.

"Good morning!" Marth greeted as he crossed the kitchen threshold.

"Oh, Prince! You're up and about early," came Kadienne's reply, in her lilting accent.

"Habit, I suppose. During the war, there wasn't much time for sleep," was Marth's reply.

"Hm! Well, did you have a good sleep anyway?" Asked Kadienne with an odd twinkle in her eye.

"Ah…" Marth blushed a little, remembering the way it had felt to be held in Minerva's arms, "My rest was… a little troubled, but I slept well for the most part."

Kadienne's face split into a crooked smile.

"Hm, hm, hm! Well then, I'm glad you an' your lady friend had a good night, mm," she said with a wink, "She not up yet?"

"Oh, Minerva was awake before I was, actually. I came down to get breakfast for her."

Oh, breakfast in bed! How _romantic_ ," cooed Kadienne.

"Oh no no, nothing like that," Marth corrected, quite hastily, "Minerva is feeling unwell this morning, so I told her to stay in bed and rest. Trust me, if she were able to get food for herself right now, she wouldn't be letting me do it."

"Hm!" Kadienne seemed almost disappointed that there wasn't an illicit affair going on under her roof - not that she seemed to entirely believe Marth's protests, either, "Well, porridge'll be ready in just a few. You just go ahead an' sit y'self down and wait, will you?"

"Are you sure? If you want to take a break, I can finish the porridge for y-" Offered Marth, already reaching for the ladle Kadienne was using to stir the pot, only to have his hand swatted away.

"No, no, no, you go sit and wait, your majesty. What kind of person would I be, if I made my prince make breakfast for me?"

"And what kind of prince would I be, if I went back on a deal? I said I would help with the work, in return for room and board."

"Room and board we were perfectly willin' to give for nothing! Sit down!"

Marth, thus chastened, reluctantly did as he was told and sat down on a nearby stool. He had every intention of waiting in silence, feeling that if he wasn't going to help, then he at least should avoid being a distraction, but Kadienne seemed to prefer conversation.

"So who is that lady friend o' yours, anyway? All I know is what Faine's told me, I didn't get a chance t' see her last night."

Marth raised an eyebrow. It hadn't taken long to learn that Kadienne's husband was given to fanciful exaggeration.

"What… exactly did Faine tell you about her? Just as a point of reference, you understand."

"T' hear him tell it, your… what did you say her name was? Minerva?" Kadienne paused just long enough for Marth to nod confirmation before going on, "To hear my Faine tell it, your Minerva's a giant warrior-woman from savage lands, the kind who'd crush your head as soon as look at you. Y'know, the brutish barbarian type."

"Minerva is no barbarian, I can assure you," Marth was amused, if not a little bit offended on Minerva's behalf, by the assumptions Faine had made and passed on to his wife, "and while her country isn't the most hospitable place, it's far from _savage_. But she is a warrior, yes. The strongest and noblest I know. She fought at my side during the war, and saved my life many a time. Were it not for Princess Minerva's aid, the war might not've been won."

Kadienne's eyes widened.

"Princess?" She gasped.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I hadn't gotten to that yet. Yes, Minerva is crown princess of Macedon."

Kadienne was silent for a moment as she digested that information. Then-

"And there's _really_ nothing going on between you two? No… scandalous royal affairs?"

"No!" Marth protested.

"And I don't know if I'd go so far as to call Minerva a giant," he went on, quick to change the subject lest he be pressed further, "But she is taller and thewier than I am by no small measure. She is certainly a giant among men, at least."

"Hm hm? So, not just quite a woman, but quite a lot of woman, too!" laughed Kadienne.

"… If you want to put it like that, yes."

"Hm hm hm! Well, I'd love to keep ya a while longer, but the porridge is ready, so you'd better take a bowl up to her majesty."

Kadienne produced a deep bowl from a nearby cupboard, ladled porridge into it, and handed it to Marth, who gratefully accepted it and turned to leave.

"Ah ah ah! You just wait a second, now," Kadienne said, pushing a second bowl of porridge into Marth's free hand, "can't go forgettin' yer own breakfast, your majesty."

"Oh. Yes, thank you," Said Marth, who hadn't so much forgotten his own breakfast as shuffled it to the bottom of his list of priorities.

"I'll be back down in a bit to help with breakfast, once all the others start to wake up," he added a moment later, already halfway out of the room.

"Ah, just git already," Kadienne waved him away, "don't worry too much about that. Spend all the time y' like with Lady Minerva!" And then she disappeared around a corner and out of sight, heading in the direction of the pantry.

Marth, left with no opportunity to respond, simply sighed and continued up the stairs. His feet padded softly as he went, very nearly the only sound that could be heard. The only other, the slight creaking of a floorboard as someone stepped quietly around their room.

Marth sighed, and with his shoulder pushed open the door to the room he and Minerva shared.

On the other side stood Minerva, wearing a too-small blue shirt, too-tight black trousers, and a surprised expression.

She wobbled a little, unsteady on her feet.

"Minerva, " sighed Marth, who was more disappointed than surprised, "you should be resting."

"I find I cannot. Being confined to a bed leaves me ill at ease."

"That's as may be, but being on your feet now will only make things worse in the long run.

"I'm not a child, Marth. I don't need you mothering me."

"… I've brought you breakfast," Marth sighed, "Sit and eat. We'll talk more of this once there is food in our bellies."

"Thank you, but… Oh, very well. Thank you," conceded Minerva. She took a bowl from Marth's hand, and moved to sit down on the edge of the bed. Marth, with his hand now free, stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and followed her.

For a while, they ate in silence. Or Marth did, at least. Minerva made a sort of contented hum after each spoonful and swallowed loudly.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Marth said eventually.

"Mm?" Replied Minerva, "what do you – oh, yes. I'm being impolite, aren't I? I always forget. My apologies."

"No, not at all. In Macedon, it would be more impolite to be silent, wouldn't it? I can hardly fault you for following the customs of your country."

"But I am in Altea, and should do as Alteans do. No?" Minerva's tone had an air of finality to it, so Marth said no more, and silence reigned.

When Minerva at last finished her bow, Marth reached over and scooped it up. With her empty bowl and his in hand, Marth stepped towards the door, and Minerva made to follow him.

Marth stopped where he was.

"Minerva…" he sighed.

"I told you," she replied, "I'm feeling fine now. And no more than you can I lay about all day and be waited on."

Marth pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Right back where we started, are we?"

Minerva narrowed her eyes and said, "I can't just lie around all day. It's something I am just not capable of."

"Have you never been sick before?"

"Of course I have. But I always found something to do with myself. And in any case, I am feeling much better now. Do not make me repeat myself again."

So saying, Minerva fell into a coughing fit.

"Are you… certain?" Asked Marth a few moments later, when Minerva's coughing had subsided.

Minerva, in lieu of an answer, merely glared. She then made once more to leave the room, only to stop no more than two steps further. She clutched her head in her hands, and her already unsteady stance wobbled slightly more.

"Minerva, you can barely stand," said Marth through pursed lips, "No more arguing in circles. You _must_ rest."

"Only a passing lightheadedness," Minerva assured him.

"No," said Marth, his voice suddenly steel, "the last time you had a 'passing lightheadedness' you fainted dead away."

Minerva narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, but as soon as she opened her mouth to object, Marth interrupted her.

"Bedrest," he said flatly. Then he delicately set the bowls down on the floor, walked over to Minerva, took her by the arm, and pulled her back towards the bed.

"Just the fact that I was able to do that just now is proof enough that you aren't as well as you say. Rest, Minerva. Lest you be too sick to travel when the storm finally clears."

Then, taking Minerva firmly-but-gently by the shoulders, he pushed her down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Surprised by how little Minerva was resisting, he went on "Just lie down and sleep for now. Okay? If I have to, I'll even tuck you in and kiss you goodnight – no, I'm only joking, I'm quite sure that you are not so childish. If you're feeling better in the afternoon, I'll ask the innkeepers if there might be something for you to help with. Nothing too straining, of course."

"I think… that might be nice…" Minerva mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

It seemed to Marth that getting Minerva off her feet had cracked the brave mask she had been wearing. Robbed of her momentum, her torpor had overtaken her. She was practically alight now with tell-tale signs of drowsiness, and her face had gone red – not, Marth hoped, a sign of fever. In any case, Minerva seemed to have accepted the wisdom of Marth's words, or at least run out of energy to protest, as she wordlessly lay down and pulled the covers around her.

"Ah, one more thing before I leave…"

Marth knelt down and pressed a hand to Minerva's forehead.

"What…?" She gasped, face turning yet more red. Marth, however, did not seem to notice, merely pulling his hand back and regarding it curiously.

"A little warmer than normal but… no fever. That's good. You should be all better in only a day or two," he said after a moment's thought. Then he turned to leave and walked out the door, stopping only to pick up the emptied oatmeal bowls.

"Sleep well, Minerva," he said as he closed the door.

And so Minerva, already edging back towards sleep, was left alone with only the howling of the wind outside, the heavy pounding of the falling rain, and her thoughts.

She dreamt of blue.

It was to the creaking of an opening door that Minerva next woke. A tiny sliver of light from the lamp-lit hallway outside was cast across her face.

She hadn't the slightest idea how long she'd slept, but little seemed to have changed in that time. The weather seemed just as frightful as before, although the clouds were brightened faintly by the sunlight behind them.

Minerva blinked blearily, and attempted to raise her head off the pillow. Her body seemed heavy as lead and she felt like death warmed over, which stymied her efforts. Nonetheless, she was able to turn her gaze towards the door.

There, silhouetted by the light, she could just barely see Marth peeking in. To check whether or not she was awake, she supposed. Well, if she hadn't been before, she certainly was now. Minerva had already been stirring, but the light from the door was what had done it in the end.

"Mmmmm'wake," she mumbled inarticulately.

"I brought you lunch, if you're feeling up to it," said Marth, voice soft and soothing as could be, as he pushed open the door and stepped past, "It's chicken soup. Good for when you're ill, or so my sister always says. Tea, as well."

He set the teacup down on the table, then the soup bowl just beside it, and Minerva could tell even through her stuffy nose that the smell was heavenly. This only made her regret all the more that she did not feel like she had the capacity to eat it at the moment, with her leaden arms and body so fatigued it couldn't even feel hunger.

"How are you feeling? Any better?" Asked Marth, as he deftly seated himself in what little space there was between the very edge of the bed and Minerva's legs.

Minerva narrowed her eyes. She wanted to shout no, to tell him that his well-intentioned advice had only resulted in her getting worse, but her voice just would not do as she willed it. So, instead, she just groaned.

"I see," said Marth simply, and the worst part was that he probably _had_ divined her full intended meaning from that wordless groan.

"That does happen. Some things get worse before they get better," he sighed and looked out the window, "Like storms, for instance. At any rate, getting some food in your belly might help a little, even if it might not feel like it right now. Please, try to eat, if you can manage it."

Marth had an almost motherly air to him as he fussed, Minerva felt. He was well suited to caring for people, her erratically drifting thoughts concluded. He had the kind of personality that was never happier than when he could help someone, and for those in need he would spare no effort. To an almost smothering extent, at times such as now, but he meant the best and she admired him endlessly for it. Even if it could also try her patience now and again.

With no small degree of effort, Minerva attempted to push herself into a sitting position, using the headboard of the bed as support. In her weakness, she did not make it very far at all, but Marth noticed her struggling and quickly interceded, gently lifting her up.

Minerva's brow creased, ever more frustrated by her own inability.

Marth just smiled, the kind of warm but vaguely artificial smile worn by someone who is not themselves happy, but wants someone else to be.

"Are you feeling comfortable?"

"Nn," grunted Minerva, nodding.

"I'm glad. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. I'll need to leave again in about half an hour, but I'll check in on you as often as I can, and for the meantime, I'll be right here."

"I…" Minerva began to speak, only for the words to refuse to leave her hoarse throat.

"Try having some tea. I put in quite a bit of honey, so it'll help if your throat's sore."

"Nn," grunted Minerva again, reaching out to take the teacup and saucer. It felt heavy in her hands, and took a little effort to lift, but from there, it was nothing but well-rehearsed routine that she could've done in her sleep, illness or no. She held the saucer in one hand, raised the teacup to her lips with the other, and took delicate sips of the warm drink.

Marth watched her, and thought it was almost a marvel. He had, on more than one occasion, seen Minerva covered in mud and blood – only some of it her own – cutting down countless scores of men and looking as if she were a rampaging war goddess who'd stepped from the pages of a book of ancient myths. And here she was, sick in bed and doing something so unwarlike as drinking tea. The dissonance was almost uncanny.

Minerva placed the teacup back down on its saucer.

"You're… staring," she rasped.

"Oh, I'm just… sorry, it's nothing. What kinds of tea do you usually prefer, by the by? If I can, I'll be sure to prepare some next time. Allowing that we have the same teas here in Altea as in Macedon, of course."

Minerva considered that for a moment.

"Hmm… I'm rather partial to… smoked tea, actually," she replied, her voice coming a little easier, now. She glanced down at the cup of honeyed tea in her hands; it seemed to be working quite quickly.

"I'm… not sure I've heard of that before, actually."

"No, I thought you might not," Minerva sighed, "… I've never seen it outside of Macedon. Whatever breakfast teas you have, then. … With less sugar than this time, I think."

"Very well, I'll remember that. I am curious to know more about that Macedonian tea you mentioned, though. In general, I'd love to learn more about your country, actually. It's a very different place from Altea, and I think it would be good to learn just how so."

"I don't actually know anything about how smoked tea is made, I'm afraid… although I presume it involves smoke somehow. I'll ask Maria, I think she knows. But if you want to talk about… all the ways our countries are different, we'll be here for days."

Marth glanced at the window, "We have the time, it seems."

Minerva laughed at that, a deep, throaty laugh that quickly turned into a coughing fit.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you," Marth apologized, "you shouldn't speak if you're not feeling up to it."

Minerva shook her head, "It's fine. I-" But she was interrupted by another coughing fit.

Marth frowned, and Minerva did not say anything more.

Eventually, Minerva finished her tea, and lay the cup down on the bedside table. She eyed the soup next to it with some measure of interest, suddenly aware of how empty her stomach was. Perhaps she might be able to eat something after all.

"Did you… make this yourself?"

"I did. I'm sorry, I've still got some ways to go before I'm much of a chef, I'm afraid. I thought I did alright, but if it's not to your taste, I can go and find something else…?"

"No. This is fine." Yes, Minerva would most certainly be able to eat after all.

And so she took the bowl into her hands and began to eat. The taste was nothing special, but the warmth was delightful, and it seemed to be just what her sickly body needed. With each spoonful, she could feel herself getting a little better. She almost fancied she could taste the love Marth put into it – a thought that nearly made her slam her head against a wall out of frustration, far more suitable for a lovestruck child than for the Red Dragoon.

As it was, she was unable to resist scowling and grinding her teeth together.

"Is it that bad?" Asked Marth, dashing any hopes Minerva had of him failing to notice.

"No, of course not. It's very good. I'm frustrated with myself, more than anything," she rasped.

Marth sighed. "You know, I don't recall you ever being such a bad patient when you were wounded."

Minerva avoided his eyes. While he'd thankfully not been able to divine the true source of her frustration, she had no desire to go into that subject, either.

"… Felled in battle is one thing. … Felled by a cold is another." Said Minerva simply.

"Not so much as you seem to think," noted Marth.

"Hmm," grunted Minerva as she returned her attention to her bowl of soup.

Sensing that he wasn't going to be able to get any more out of her, Marth sighed and shook his head a little, and the two of them lapsed back into silence.

"I'd better get going," he said eventually, "I'd love to stay by your side, but there's other things that need to be done."

"Hold up, I'll go with you," said Minerva, setting her now empty bowl aside.

"No, you won't. You need to keep resting, Minerva."

"I'm feeling much better."

"Act tough all you like, Minerva. You look and sound like death, and a minute ago you were barely strong enough to lift a teacup. With your health as weak as it is, you should keep resting."

Minerva looked hurt by that comment. She cast her gaze downwards, staring at her fist as she clenched and unclenched it. Her arm shook a little from the effort of raising it, and seeing that only seemed to widen whatever wound Marth had inadvertently opened.

"Minerva? Are you-"

"It's nothing," Minerva was quick to cut him off, "nothing at all. I think I'll... sleep a while longer. Or something like that. You go on." And so saying, she turned away and lay back down.

"Minerva…"

"It really is nothing."

"You can talk to me, you know. About whatever it is that's bothering you."

He received no response.

He stepped back towards the bed, and gingerly laid a hand on Minerva's shoulder. She slapped it away without so much as turning to look.

"Minerva… Please. I can't stand to think I might've hurt you somehow. Let me make that right."

The silence hung heavy in the air.

* * *

It was dark when Marth returned, the lamp having long since burned out and the night having long since fallen – difficult as it was to tell through the storm clouds. Minerva was quite awake even at this hour and even in her current state. Dreary, drowsy, and not entirely clear-headed, but well awake and standing at the window, staring out into the rain.

The door creaked quite loudly as Marth came into the room.

"Minerva?"

"Prince Marth, I… wanted to apologise for my churlishness earlier. And I wanted to explain-"

"Minerva, there's no reason for you to-"

"No, listen. Prince Marth… the might that you admire so much is _all_ that I have. There is nothing more to me than strength of arms. So when I am brought low in battle… I can live with that. Knowing that I fell doing everything that I was capable of. Knowing that I used my only virtue in the name of something greater. In…" She said haltingly, "the name of your virtues. I know that I can rest and heal and return to the battlefield. Brought low by illness like this… I feel powerless. This is something almost random, something I cannot truly control, that robs me of that one virtue. And I… cannot stand that. When you reminded me of how weak I was earlier, it cut me far deeper than you could possibly have expected."

"All this," Marth sighed, "over a simple cold. Minerva… I'm sorry. If I-"

"You couldn't've known. I don't blame you. I could never." Said Minerva softly.

"Minerva…"

"It's getting late. We should be getting to sleep, don't you think? I'm not sure I could stay awake much longer if I tried."

"Wait!" As Minerva moved towards the bed, Marth rushed to stop her. He stepped in front of her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes.

"Princess Minerva, I have more to say then just an apology. Minerva… you can't say those kinds of things about yourself. I know you can't bring yourself to see it, but you're so much more than just a warrior. I know you don't think you have any worth outside of the battlefield, but you're much more gentle and kind than you think. And you've seen the loyalty the Whitewings have for you – you're a born leader, too. You will be the greatest queen Macedon, this whole continent even, has ever seen, I swear on my life. Minerva. _Minerva_. I…" and the words were on the tip of his tongue, burning in his mouth, trying to force their way out as if they had a will of their own, "… You're such a wonderful person. I wish you could see that as clearly as I do… and as the Whitewings do, and as your people do," but no, he hadn't the courage to say them. Only three simple words, but so far beyond his ability to speak.

"And… it's okay to be weak sometimes. It's okay to not be in control sometimes. Nobody, not even you, can be so unbreakable a pillar. A little bad luck won't be the end of you. And you know, you got sick by being out in the cold and rain to save me, so I think that's about the same as a wound in battle. Whether it be a cut or a cold, sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes."

In response, Minerva only stared silently back at him.

"… Fool," she said eventually, smiling bitterly. She leaned forwards, hesitating a little, and kissed him. It was momentary and mostly chaste and both their faces turned as bright and scarlet as Minerva's hair.

Minerva turned away. Marth slowly, as if in a daze, reached up and placed a hand on his mouth.

"M- Mi- Min… y- you-" he stuttered.

"What?" Said Minerva, in a tone of forced flatness that still wavered a little, "you did offer. Earlier. When you were trying to make me rest this morning. You said you'd kiss me goodnight, if you had to."

"But I…"

"Is that so strange?" Minerva continued, her voice unchanged, "we were discussing the differences in our cultures earlier. In Macedon, this sort of thing wouldn't be that far out of the ordinary."

"Is- is that so? I- I see…" Minerva, facing away as she was, did not see the expression of disappointment that Marth valiantly tried and failed to keep off his face.

And then neither said anything at all, falling together into an uncomfortable silence. They climbed into bed, carefully keeping as far from the other as comfortably possible and both keeping their backs to each other.

And they both lay awake with troubled and troubling thoughts long into the night and long after each had assumed the other had fallen asleep.

Marth had the same thoughts as the night before, thrown into even greater turmoil by the events of the day. His anxieties spun in a widening gyre, the worries of a young man in love, fearful of the pain of rejection; never bitten yet thrice shy. And Minerva's reaction to the kiss, as he had seen it, only led him to believe all the more that she would not return his affection. A platonic gesture, that's all it had been. And so his worries ate away at him until finally the blessed darkness claimed him.

Minerva raged internally. Idiot, she berated herself, fool! Overstepping her boundaries like that in a moment of impulsive weakness. And it had been… so wonderful. And it shouldn't have happened at all. And then she had lied, seized on the first excuse she had come up with to wave away her folly. To save herself from having to face her fears, she had told Marth of a tradition that did not exist. She was, or so she felt, not only a thoughtless, impetuous, emotional fool, but a coward, too! And then, as sleep claimed her, her last thought was of Marth's words: _sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes_.

* * *

Elsewhere, the innkeeper and his wife shared a conspiratorial smile as they themselves prepared to sleep. Together, they had come to suspect certain things about the Prince of Altea and Princess of Macedon that were not quite true – as much as both royals wished they were.


	3. May Flowers

**And here we are! The ending at last.**

 **... Look, I can't say I'm particularly proud of the end result here. But this is the first multi-chapter fic I've finished, so I'm proud of the progress it represents, at least.**

* * *

Minerva slept late the next morning, a rarity for her. Once she was awake, she only rolled over onto her back and lay there, staring at the ceiling, an even greater rarity. She felt weighed down, like she was anchored to the bed by some ineffable weight. It wasn't just her illness; a good night's rest seemed to have left her condition much improved, if still not quite resolved. Tempestuous emotion whirled within her. Regret, dejection, anxiety; it felt like the storm above raged in her heart, too.

Marth had left before she had woken up, leaving her alone to her thoughts, which spun in ouroboric circles, going nowhere, reaching no conclusions. She wondered if she could pretend what she had done last night had never happened, if Marth would ever give it another thought if she did not mention it again. She wondered if she ought to explain her lie. She wondered, terror gripping her heart, if she oughtn't simply come clean, if she oughtn't simply confess her love.

She thought back to what Marth had said last night - 'sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes.' Could she do that? Could she throw her cards to the wind and accept where they fell?

Rather than face the mortifying ordeal of finding her answer to that question, she threw off her covers and dragged herself from the bed. Rather than think, she stumbled blearily downstairs in hopes of finding something with which to occupy her hands and mind.

Despite the hour, Minerva noted, the ground floor was largely empty. She could only presume that most of the inn's patrons preferred to stay in their rooms outside of mealtimes. With the storm preventing anyone from leaving, and the lack of any notable manner of passing time, that seemed reasonable enough to her. When she entered the dining hall, she found only the innkeeper, wiping down the tables, and two of the inn's patrons - a young man with Granian features and a Frontierswoman, chatting aimlessly with each other.

"Pardon me," Minerva said, approaching the innkeeper, "I wanted to ask about-"

"Ah! Your majesty!" gasped the innkeeper, as he dropped what he was doing and knelt

"There's no need to stand on ceremony with me," Minerva sighed, "... or kneel, as it may be. As royalty goes, I'm not much. As it stands, I'm reliant on your hospitality. If anything, I should be bowing before you."

"Ahhhh, but you're a princess, and I, as you can see, am not," noted the innkeeper, rising to his feet.

"With no power here, so far from my country, trapped in your home by a storm. Oh, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced. As I suppose you know," she said, extending a hand, "I am Minerva, of Macedon."

"Faine," said the inkeeper, shaking Minerva's hand.

"Well met," Minerva nodded.

"Aye, well met indeed. Pleasure t' make your acquaintance, your majesty. What can I do for you? If you're lookin' for 'is majesty the prince, he went out t' the stables to take care of the animals. I told him he didn't need to do that, but-"

"No, actually. I wished to ask if you had anything I might do. Some chore or another. I need something to do with myself."

Faine blinked, his face twisting in confusion.

"Ye… you too… doesn't seem very roya…" He coughed, composing himself, "Er, that is, you could help with…" Faine trailed off, and suddenly his face lit up.

"Ah, I know! F'r now, why don't you head over to the stables and help Prince Marth? Just down that hallway o'er there, first door on the right."

Minerva hesitated. Keeping her mind off Marth was no small part of why she was seeking chores to do. Working the same chore as him would quite defeat the purpose. But she had no intention of sharing that information with anyone else, and without it, refusing what she was offered would seem strange and raise suspicion, and certainly had no desire to answer any questions on the matter right now.

"That… will be fine. Thank you," she replied. And without another word, she walked past Faine and headed for the stables.

"Hello? Prince Mar…"

As she opened the door, she called out to announce her presence, but Marth's name caught in her throat.

"Minerva? Is that you? Are you sure you should be up and about? And especially here!" Marth worried. It was easy to see why. The stables were not so well insulated against the cold, wind and damp as the rest of the inn, and Minerva felt the chill in her bones. Still livable, certainly, there was little worry that the animals would fare badly, but it was very much not the place for someone of ill health.

Marth was standing at the far end of the stable, pulling up an old, somewhat ragged woolen blanket. As he spoke, he hefted it over to a stall next to him, and began setting it over a humongous Clydesdale.

"I'm feeling much better this morning, truly. Here, allow me to help you with that," said Minerva.

"Ah, no, it's fine, I'm almost done anyway. No need to trouble yourself on my account."

"That would be why I'm here, though. Now that I'm feeling a little better, I need something to do with my hands. And nothing done on your behalf could be trouble for me," she added, quietly.

"Ah, is that so? Well… thank you, then, Minerva. I appreciate it. In that case, the horses in those last four stalls right where you are still need to be fed. Make sure that if they shake their blankets off while they're eating, you replace them. Er, three horses and one pegasus, but it doesn't really make all that much difference, so..."

"Mm. Thank you," nodded Minerva, glancing around to see where the feed was kept.

She quickly fell into a mindless trance as she set about the work. Her arms and legs moved with no conscious thought behind them. She was barely even aware of what she was doing, or indeed anything at all. Just how she liked it. She felt herself well-suited to this kind of purely physical work, where she needn't think at all.

"Minerva?"

It was the only thing that gave her a sense of purpose and place in a time of peace, when her martial skill was less than useless.

"Minerva?"

"Eh?" Marth's voice shook her back to the waking world, "Sorry, what were you saying? I was distracted."

"Shall I handle that last little bit? I thought you might want to visit your wyvern."

Minerva hesitated a moment, glancing at the heavy bag of feed she was carrying under her arm, before replying.

"Mm. No, I'll finish up here first. It will only be a moment."

"And you're sure you don't want any help?"

Minerva shook her head, and returned to what she was doing. Marth sighed, and moved to help her anyway. She did not, particularly, resist.

And in short order the work was done, and they were both standing in the stall where Minerva's wyvern mount was being kept.

Minerva placed a hand on her wyvern's snout, rubbing the green scales gently. She said nothing. She had never been the kind of person who cooed over their animals and spoke to them in baby-talk, or, indeed, spoke to them at all. That kind of expression had always seemed unnecessary to her. They were partners, bound by bloodshed. Their understanding ran so much deeper than such clumsy things as words could communicate.

"What's her name? I don't believe you ever told me," Asked Marth.

"She's Melady."

"Melady, is it? Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Melady," he said, stroking the wyvern's cheek. Melady responded with a low, contented rumble.

"She likes you," noted Minerva, "although, I can't imagine anyone with a heart wouldn't."

Marth laughed, "I think you're overselling me a little, Minerva. But I'm very glad Melady approves of me! You know what they say about animals being excellent judges of character. If your mount thought poorly of me, I don't know what I'd do."

"Oh, Melady is an excellent judge of character. So I can quite confidently guarantee that there was never any chance that she would not approve of you."

"I'm flattered you think so," said Marth, a little distracted by the way Melady was insistently nuzzling at his cheek, at which Minerva could only sigh and smile. And while Marth was occupied with that, she walked around to Melady's side, knelt in between her hind-legs and wings, examined her scales, and sighed.

"So much mud caught in her scales… This will take hours to clean. And I'm worried about the temperature, too. Wyverns are cold-blooded, after all. Although, I suppose there's not much anyone can do about that."

"We can get her extra blankets, if that might help," Marth offered, "but she seems quite fine to me."

Minerva nodded, "Still, an ounce of prevention, and all that. We can do that later, though. For now…"

She turned around and sat down, leaning her back against Melady's side. She closed her eyes and slouched a little, relaxed by the company of her faithful companion. Melady curled her body around Minerva and lay her head to rest near Minerva's side. Then, as if suddenly realizing something, she lifted her head again, and gently nudged Marth towards Minerva. He stumbled a little, then raised his hands in deference and smiled awkwardly at the wyvern.

"Ahaha… I, um, I should be going. There's certainly going to be more that needs doing…" he attempted to excuse himself. Melady, however, was having none of that, and her jaws closed around the collar of his shirt, and she dragged him back, sitting him right next to Minerva.

"She really does like you," Minerva said, a hint of amusement edging into her tone.

Marth laughed nervously, fidgeting a little as he shifted himself into a more comfortable position, "well, I suppose there's no harm in lingering a while."

He settled himself down, being careful not to get too close to Minerva, and rested his chin on his knuckles. He seemed quite deep in thought, as Minerva saw it. For her part, she saw no reason to disturb him, and so settled back into her doze. Normally, she would never have countenanced such laziness, but today, resting here with Melady and Marth, she felt more at peace than ever she had before. Even the worries that she had tried so hard to drive from her mind earlier that morning seemed far away.

"I've been thinking more about what you said last night, Minerva," said Marth, breaking the spell.

"Forget it," replied Minerva, brow creased.

"I can't. Not while you still think so lowly of yourself."

"And what of you, Marth?" Minerva was surprised by the acid with which her own words came out, "ereyesterday night you confided in me that you felt yourself to be weak, and never gave me chance to respond. Do you think it pleases me, to know that _you_ think so lowly of yourself?"

Marth's eyes widened, and his lips turned downwards into a frown. He looked away, casting his eyes downward.

"I… that is… d… don't change the subject, Minerva. This isn't about me."

"But it _is_ ," said Minerva sharply.

"I don't see-"

"You cannot spend so much effort telling me that I am so much more than I see, and not expect me to do the same for you, Prince Marth," she said - almost snarled - reaching forward, grabbing him roughly by the collar and forcing him to look into her eyes, "I am not a woman of pretty words, so I will be short and blunt. You are the strongest person I know, above any other. I'll never understand why you admire me as you do, when you eclipse me so. You are a hero! The lodestar we all follow! _Never_ degrade yourself like that again!"

Marth opened his mouth as if to respond, and then closed it again, struggling for words.

Minerva took the opportunity to forge ahead.

"And furthermore, do not think I haven't noticed-!"

"I should be going. There are still things left undone, after all," Marth cut her off, rising to his feet. Melady let out a low grumble as he stepped away, and lashed out with her tail. Marth's feet were swept out from under him, and he tumbled over, landing face-first on top of Minerva.

 _This again?_ Was the only thought in her head as she stared flatly down at just where Marth had landed, with his face buried in her chest.

Sighing, she pushed him up a little, lifting him so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

"And furthermore," she repeated herself, "do not think I haven't noticed how tired you are. Did you think that if you fussed over my illness enough, that your own debility would go unnoticed? It's all well and good to lecture me about taking care of myself and accepting that even I must be weak sometimes, but…"

"... The one who should be resting… it should be you," Minerva said, memories of nearly two years ago ringing in her head, when she had muttered those same words while bedridden with wounds that, to this day, pained her some evenings.

Marth extricated himself from her grasp and got back to his feet, dusting off his clothes as he stood.

"It's only just this morning that I've been feeling a little enervated, and I assure you, it's nothing at all.

Wasn't this all so familiar?

"Is this how you think you'll become stronger? By forcing yourself like this? Driving yourself like a slavemaster?" She snapped.

But Marth was already walking away, and her words fell on deaf ears. Minerva sighed and followed him, stopping to pat Melady's head she went.

* * *

Marth spent the rest of the morning avoiding her. He buried himself relentlessly in whatever chores he could find - Minerva swore that the dining room floor shone brighter than an Archanean ballroom by the time he'd finished scrubbing it down. Minerva did much the same. She did not know how to bridge the gap, nor did she wish to drown in the same thoughts that had been plaguing her all morning, so she kept her mind off of things in the only way she could think of.

And yet, when they sat down for lunch, Marth still chose to sit at the same table as Minerva, in a far corner of the room. She looked up from her plate of fish, a surprised expression crossing her face, as Marth set down his own plate and sat in the chair across from her.

For most of the inn's visitors, lunchtime had already come and gone. The only people remaining in the dining hall aside of Marth and Minerva were the same two Minerva had seen earlier - had they not rooms to return to? Minerva half-heartedly wondered - barely noticed by either prince or princess.

They ate in silence, barely even looking at each other.

Minerva desperately wanted to break the silence, but knew not what to say. The words caught in her throat.

"Marth, I…" she finally managed to force those two words out, as the two were nearing the end of lunch, with little but scraps remaining on either plate.

"I… apologize for my behaviour this morning. I shouldn't have been so angry, and certainly not at you. But just as you counselled me last night, I need you to know this: for years, I believed that there was no one I could rely on but myself. The only person who could match me, betrayed me. Even for as much I trusted the Whitewings, I still knew that in the end I would be on my own. And then I met you. I could not help but believe in you. You were shining and radiant, and I saw in you someone truly beautiful, that I could never surpass. It made me want to better, that I might better stand with you. It _made me_ better. Since I met you, all the poison in my body has bled out… all the anger I used to feel has faded to peace. That's your strength, you see? Your power is to draw upon the power of others, your strength is in strengthening others and bringing them behind your cause. You've no reason to pursue strength like mine, strength that is only good for war, when you have such wonderful powers that will serve you as well in peace as in battle."

"I'm really not all that. Someone you could never surpass…? I don't believe such a thing exists. You mustn't lionize me like that, especially not at your own expense. I'm only human. And I've every reason," Marth sighed, "everything you've just said only confirms my feelings. If my strength comes from my friends, then what am I on my own? What happens when I find myself without anyone else to aid me? And what happens when the people who fight for me fall? Do they die for me, too, because I hadn't the power to protect them? That's not something I can let happen. I need to be stronger."

"There's nothing you need or needn't be," replied Minerva, shaking her head, "You, Prince Marth Lowell, are perfect, talent for warfare or not. Do not lose sight of your virtues for your flaws. If needs must… if you really must fight... then allow me to stand in for what you lack. Allow me to be your sword and shield. I promise you, if I had _you_ to fight for every waking hour, I would never falter."

"You can't always be there for me, Minerva," it was Marth's turn to shake his head, "There will be times that I must stand alone."

"You need only ask. Say the word, and I would stand at your side forever. You would never have to stand alone."

Marth blushed and looked away.

"You know as well as I do that you can't. You have your own duties that must come first," he said, shaking his head, "although I appreciate the offer."

Minerva sighed, rubbing at her temples.

"I've had enough of these endless circles," she grumbled, "let us speak no more of this, then."

Marth nodded, and returned to his meal.

Minerva rested her elbow on the table, and her chin in her hand. Indeed, she was tired. She could see no way to make Marth understand. Nor could she understand the things Marth tried to assure her of. Perhaps she was giving up too easily. But how wearying, to watch a star fail to see its own rays. Words were such clumsy things, and every attempt to pierce the shields over one's heart stumbled over language; to communicate such arcane and human things as emotion and faith would never be truly possible, at least, not for someone as ineloquent as her.

Although her face was flat and expressionless, she was utterly lost in thought. She felt she ought to carry on the conversation, finding something new and amicable to talk about, but she hadn't any real idea how. Small talk was not her forte.

Eventually she came to some kind of conclusion and began to speak.

"... How have you been doing, lately? With everything that's happened, I never remembered to ask. We haven't seen each other in quite some time. I don't mean with Altea, that can wait for the official meeting, I mean what you yourself have been doing," she asked.

"Mm. About the same as ever, I should think. I don't think anything altogether that interesting has happened to me lately. Well, I suppose Elice has been quite interested in knowing if I've found a queen yet. I don't understand what thoughts run through her head sometimes, but she's been asking after the subject rather often lately."

Minerva could not hide the interest and trepidation that flashed across her face, although Marth didn't seem to notice.

"And… have you?" she inquired.

"That's… Well, that is…" Marth stuttered, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He glanced at Minerva and bit his lip nervously, "... No. No, I can't say there's anyone like that."

Minerva could not define the emotion that flooded her upon hearing that. Something like a mixture of relief, disappointment, and resignation. Whatever it was, this time, she was careful not to let it change her dull expression.

"I see… Well, I'm sure you of all people have no lack of options. You'll find someone, eventually."

Marth laughed awkwardly, avoiding Minerva's gaze as he did.

"What about you, Minerva? I'd love to hear what life in Macedon has been like."

Minerva stroked her chin in thought.

"I haven't had much free time since the war ended. When I can, I visit Lena at her convent or go hunting. Lena's been… teaching me to cook. For pleasure, I mean. Cooking for survival, I'm quite capable of."

"Is that so?" Replied Marth, his polite smile breaking out into a sunny grin, "then do you suppose you'd like to help me with dinner tonight? That would be fun, wouldn't it? I'm sure we could make something quite wonderful together."

"I would enjoy that, I think," Minerva smiled right back, quite thinly and dimly compared to Marth, but with every bit as much sincerity.

Suddenly, somewhere behind her, Minerva heard a clattering of wood and indistinct, gasping voices, breaking the spell. She did not turn to look at what the other couple in the dining hall, whom she had absolutely forgotten, were doing. The sudden blush and aghast expression on Marth's face told her enough.

"Time we were leaving, I think," she said, picking up her plate, sliding out of her chair, and walking towards the kitchen. Marth followed her with all haste, carefully not looking at the Granian and the Frontierswoman as he passed them.

"Could they not have returned to their rooms first? Or else, made sure there was no one else around," muttered Minerva, dunking her plate into a wash basin and scrubbing it with a nearby cloth.

"W- well, they were only kissing," noted Marth, joining her, "it could have been worse."

"Only kissing!" Minerva scoffed, "they might as well have been eating each other's faces. I'm sure if we'd stayed a minute longer, we'd have seen some quite unpleasant things."

Marth laughed discomfitedly, "you have to admit, at least, it's nice to see people in love. It reminds you of the goodness and happiness in the world, you know?"

"Mostly," grumbled Minerva, grabbing another dirty plate and scrubbing it a little harder than was necessary, "mostly, it reminds me that some people have no sense for place or time." It reminded her of another thing as well, but she'd not say it out loud.

"I'm happy for them, at least. Would that I could have that kind of success! A beautiful woman like that-" he bit his tongue, more words than he had meant to say having spilled from his mouth.

Minerva stopped completely, and turned her neck to glance at Marth, an expression of surprise and hope, flitting across her face before she carefully schooled it back to a neutral expression.

"I… didn't realize that was the kind of woman you thought beautiful," Minerva had thought the frontierswoman admirable, but not beautiful - too large, too muscular, too scarred, "it isn't really what I'd… well, it's surprising, that's all."

Marth blushed and avoided her gaze, and Minerva felt, for the first time in recent memory, a flicker of hope; she immediately quashed the feeling. Even if, _even if_ Marth thought she was beautiful, she was still the same roughneck, warlike, incult soldier as she would be if he didn't. Still as unworthy and unsuited as a suitor to Altea's Star and Saviour.

"Um, I- that is- it's not so much that I..." Marth stuttered.

"No, never mind. Never mind," Minerva was quick to end that train of discussion, fearing what answers might come, and returned her undivided attention to the washing of dishes.

"A-alright then," Marth sighed, relieved.

Minerva sighed too, and her eyes narrowed. All that, and she'd wound up right back here, in the same mire of trepidation and self-doubt.

Well, at least one good thing had come of it. Knowing what Marth thought of as attractive in a woman… was somewhat illuminating.

Without looking, she reached out to grab the next plate, and found none.

"Finished already?" She muttered.

"Seems so," answered Marth, setting his own last plate down.

He walked over to the kitchen window, and looked out into the midday darkness. Minerva stepped in behind him, and looked over his shoulder.

"It looks ghastly out there." The constant downpour had done no small degree of damage to the surrounding countryside. As far as the eye could see, there were only great swathes of mud and fallen trees.

"I suppose you'd know that best," nodded Marth, "Have I already thanked you for that? I'm sorry you had to go through all that only to find me safe and sound."

Minerva shook her head.

"Not at all. I'm glad to have found you safe. Or did you think I would've preferred to find you dead?" She chuckled. Marth laughed too.

"No, I suppose not."

"And I'm grateful for the time it's given us. Not as members of a war council, or in diplomatic meetings, just… us. I've enjoyed spending this purposeless time with you. … If that's not too presumptive of me to say."

"No, not at all!" Said Marth, laying a friendly hand on her shoulder, "I'm happy to spend time with you, too. It's nice to just relax and be ourselves… even if the setting could be better."

 _Be ourselves… Right,_ Minerva thought. It almost made her feel guilty, to hear Marth say that when she was holding so much back.

"Ah, but, even if you say you didn't mind your trek so much, I am sorry about your clothes! I hope mine aren't too uncomfortable."

Minerva blinked. Actually… she'd almost forgotten that the clothes on her back were borrowed from Marth. They were ill-fitting, certainly, and pushed too tightly against her body, but they weren't uncomfortable. She found them fairly nice, really.

"Nn. A little small, maybe, but it's enough to cover me… mostly. I think I rather like your clothes, actually."

"Ah, that's gladdening. You know, if you like them that much, I'm sure I wouldn't mind if you kept them," Marth joked, "Ah, but, only mostly…?"

He could see no problems around her upper body, glanced downwards, caught sight of Minerva's exposed abdomen - hard, muscular, and scarred - and quickly averted his gaze, blushing. Minerva noticed his gaze, and did much the same.

"An- and you're not cold?"

"Nn… no, not particularly…"

Marth turned back towards the window and, even if there wasn't much to see, the two of them continued to pass the time watching the scenery outside.

Slowly, without even realizing, Marth began to lean backwards against Minerva, and she began to, equally unaware, slide her arms around his waist to hold him.

Minerva idly wondered where the innkeeper and his wife were. Surely, even if it had been established previously that Marth was going to prepare dinner, they would pass through the kitchen at some point. But no, as they stood there, the prince and princess were never disturbed.

(had she known that Kadienne and Faine had, in fact, come by, but had seen the two of them standing together, stopped at the door, and left them alone, she would have been mortified)

After a while, Minerva's eyes twitched downwards, and the realization of what her hands were began to dawn on her. The embarrassment that would have brought, however, was cut short by a sudden, massive yawn from Marth.

He pulled away, rubbing at his eyes.

"Oh, dear. It seems I'm more tired than I thought."

"Then rest," chided Minerva, much as Marth had done to her, "did I not say you should be resting?"

Marth laughed sleepily, "I suppose you did. But I was not wrong, either. You need your rest, too."

"I slept late this morning," Minerva shook her head, "I'll be fine."

"Nonetheless, there's not much else to do right now, and I'm sure that you could use a little rest anyway, recovering from a cold as you are."

He smiled innocently, and Minerva found herself captivated by that smile, and his bright eyes, and soft facial features, and found she did not have the will to resist.

"Let's go together, then," she said, placing one hand on Marth's back and guiding him forwards.

And the endless wary circles drew a little closer.

* * *

Minerva lay in the bed she and Marth shared, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath he took. It hadn't taken him at all long to nod off; she felt a little vindicated, seeing how accurately she had judged his fatigue.

She, meanwhile, had not taken so quickly to sleep. She sat, her back against the headboard, and wondered, 'what if?'

What if she hadn't thrown herself so whole-heartedly into battle? What if she had studied things like etiquette and poise like a proper princess? Would she be wiser, kinder, more adept at love? Would she be somebody who could love without reservation and receive it in turn? Would she be worthy of courting the Star and Saviour?

She glanced at Marth, seeing his peaceful, dozing form. She'd noted it yesterday morn, but he really did look that much smaller he was asleep. His already beautiful and feminine body looked as vulnerable as a baby bird when he slept, a far cry from the shining sun he seemed when awake.

… even in appearance, she envied his effortless possession of what she could never have. Sometimes she almost wondered if somewhere in the grand cosmic scheme of things, something had not been mixed up; if he should not have been a princess, and she, a prince.

And she wondered, could she yet become someone who could love freely and without reservation? Could she yet become someone worthy of courting the Star and Saviour?

… No. She pushed that thought from her mind. Better to be satisfied with being near but never reaching than to chase after and feel the pain of falling short. And, even if she could, she wouldn't change her past. Maybe being a warrior down to the bone had left her without what she needed to reach her love, but it had given her what she needed to protect him. That was worth something. That was worth _everything_. As long as she lived, she would see to it that Marth never suffered the slightest wound. All the love in the world couldn't turn back a falling sword, but a strong arm might.

She thought back to what Marth had said over lunch.

 _Ah, so that is how he feels. I think I understand now,_ was her last thought as she, too, drifted into a doze.

* * *

"Minerva? Minerva?" Marth said, shaking her softly. His efforts were to no avail, and she continued to sleep.

"Well, there's still a little time.." Marth sighed, "You can rest a little longer. I suppose you must need it." He had to admit, he felt a little vindicated, seeing her sleep so soundly; clearly she had not been as far recovered as she had insisted. Still, he had to wonder how much longer she would sleep - there was only so long he could reasonably delay dinner preparations, and he didn't want to start without her.

Short of dumping a bucket of water on her, though, there wasn't much he could do, so he settled himself down in a chair beside the bed and waited. With little else to look at as he waited, his eyes were quickly drawn to Minerva's slumbering form.

Asleep, she almost looked as if she had been hewn from stone; a giant, mighty statue of a goddess of war. Wearing ill-fitting clothes tailored for a princeling barely two-thirds her size. It was almost comical, looking at the way the little blue shirt was straining to contain her size.

It gave him a wonderful view of her muscles, too, although he tried not to look - it was quite a reprehensible thing, to ogle her in her sleep. Her scars, possibly more beautiful, were also on display, and try as he might, Marth couldn't help but admire the constellations of cicatrices on her rough skin. In his mind, each one was a trophy, proof of a triumph. Proof of how she'd bled, time and again. Proof of the things she could do that he could never.

… Proof of how worn and damaged her body was. Just how much more could she take? It was hard to imagine Minerva ever faltering, however wounded she might be, but eventually there might come a day that her lifetime of injuries would leave her unable to fight. Just two nights ago, wounds from nearly two years ago had been paining her.

What happened then? What happened to a soldier who could no longer fight?

As if on cue, Minerva began to writhe in her sleep, clutching at her side. Just as the night before last, old wounds began to pain her anew. But just as soon as it started, before Marth could do anything to ease her pain, it subsided, and she stilled.

Marth still didn't believe that Minerva's self-doubt was anything like justified - he saw her for the heroic and kind person he was sure she was, that she could not see - but he was, he thought, perhaps beginning to understand her anxieties.

He was also thinking that perhaps he was beginning to understand how to truly help her assuage them. Already, he was heading towards a good start.

Marth sighed deeply. Even if his current course wasn't the plain sailing he thought it was, he wouldn't stop even when it crashed against the rocks. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ believe that there wasn't anything he could do. How long had it been since he had seen Minerva really, truly happy? Had he ever? The princess always seemed to have an air of dolor about her, and certainly she had reason enough for it, but… If nothing else, he wanted to make her happy. After everything she had suffered and continued to suffer, surely she deserved that much? As long as he lived, he would strive for that.

Minerva stirred and, with barely a trace of sleepiness, rose from the bed.

"Ah! Welcome back to the land of the living, Minerva," Marth greeted, rising from his seat.

"I didn't mean to sleep so long," apologized Minerva as she stretched herself out.

Marth shook his head.

"If you needed to sleep, you needed to sleep. We still have a little time yet before we really _must_ be going, anyway. It couldn't hurt to get started now, though. Shall we?"

With one last great stretch of her arms and a peaceable groan, Minerva seemed as bright as the morning, and, with a moment's hesitation, she nodded her agreement.

"Yes, let's."

Marth went ahead, and Minerva followed close behind.

* * *

"It's delicious," Marth smiled, "you did a wonderful job, Minerva."

"Nonsense. It's only as good as it is because of you. If anything, I held it back.

"No, not at all! You really are much better at this than you give yourself credit for. Without you, I think, this soup wouldn't be half as good!"

Minerva smiled slightly behind a spoonful of soup.

"Well, I can't say I dislike being praised by you, even if it doesn't feel quite deserved."

"We should do this more often!" Marth suggested.

"I don't see us having many chances to, but… yes, that would be good, I think."

Minerva contemplated the dinner in front of her. A simple dinner, only a thick soup and a glass of wine, but delightful nonetheless. The two of them had again been the last to eat, and were alone in the dining hall, a candlelit setting that might almost seem romantic, if not for the occasional thunderclap.

"Really, I mean it. I'm sure we can make time. After all, this is important, isn't it?"

"Eh?"

"Well, you've been talking about how you think you haven't any skills outside of battle. I still don't think that's true, but it can't hurt to improve your other skills, no? We can learn to cook together, and I can teach you what I know about things like courtly etiquette and diplomacy! And other such things, of course. It's a fine idea, don't you think?"

Minerva burst out laughing.

"Hahaha! Oh, I was just about to say much the same things. Coincidence is a strange thing, no? Marth, since you desire so much to become stronger, do you suppose you'd do me the honour of letting me train you? When we return to the castle, of course."

A look of confusion passed across Marth's face as Minerva laughed and spoke, replaced quickly with a broad smile.

"The honour would be all mine! Although I do think you've just destroyed all my patience in one fell swoop. Suddenly, I feel that this storm cannot end soon enough."

"Well, according to you, I need more rest first anyway."

"Well, you do, don't you?"

"Hmph. But, ah… if you want so badly to teach me how to be more… to be less soldierly, then I… would not be adverse," she said haltingly, "but I warn you now, don't expect much success." It seemed pointless to her. Unlike Marth who, she knew, could do anything, Minerva was, she knew just as well, die-cast. It was much too late for her to think about becoming someone different.

How sad, to be only twenty winters of age and already be as set in her ways as an old man.

Marth frowned.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Minerva. I've seen first-hand how determined you are. You could do anything you set your mind to, I think. Even if it took years, you're stubborn enough to see it through to the end. Although, if it might take years, I suppose it would be best to start as soon as possible. There's no time like the present, or so they say."

"Wh- now? Here, and now?" Minerva cannot keep the surprise from her face.

"Certainly! There's not much else to do this… fine… evening, is there?" answered Marth, voice straining a little when the word 'fine' was coincidentally punctuated with the rumble of thunder.

"Well…" sighed Minerva.

"Now, I think," continued Marth, forging ahead, "before things like the rules of courtly etiquette or any such rigid things, the place to start would be simple expression. You're a very guarded person, Minerva, and it wouldn't hurt to be a little more open."

Minerva blinked.

"Would that not be… counterproductive? In diplomacy, or so I have heard, it's better to keep one's cards close to their chest."

"Well, that may be so, but I think a bit of sincerity and openness goes a long way. And besides, it's not just about communicating in a courtly context, but in a regular social context too. I'm not saying you should spill your heart immediately or to just anyone, but it seems like you never quite let anyone know what you're thinking - or if you do, you won't listen to what anyone says in return. Being reserved is one thing, but you so often seem like you've built an iron shell around you."

"I suppose that's not… untrue. I am a selfish creature, by nature. Expressing myself is difficult, and bonds are as vulnerable as exposed nerves. Better, it seemed to me, to keep people at arm's length as much as possible. But now… well, as you've seen, I regret that choice. There are, especially, a few certain people I wish that I were more open with."

"There's not really any secret trick to being more open, that I know of. In the end, hard as it may be, you've just got to express your feelings to people instead of keeping it in," said Marth, feeling the bitter sting of hypocrisy in his words, "Speaking of expressing yourself… Um, Minerva…?"

"Yes? Speak your mind."

"It may seem strange, but when you were angry at me this morning… I was happy."

"I… didn't take you for that kind of person," Minerva said as she raised one quizzical eyebrow. There had to be, she presumed, more to that statement than the vaguely-masochistic surface presented.

"No, no, no! Not like that! It's just… it feels like the only time these last few days that you've been genuinely open with me. Every moment we've been together, even when you're pouring your heart out to me, you've been holding something back. You get this look in your eyes and then you shake it off and act like nothing happened. There's something you just won't say, won't even acknowledge, and I know it must have something to do with me. And I just… I know I've no right to pry, but I hate not knowing. Have I done something to earn your displeasure? Or your disappointment? Or…" Marth trailed off, looking aside and gripping his arm nervously.

"No, it's… it's nothing like that," replied Minerva hesitantly, "there isn't…"

For a moment, she had thought Marth had figured out her secret, and she had felt like she was about to die. She wasn't sure that Marth knowing only that she was holding something back and fearing it was terrible was any better a feeling.

"... you could never. But, I… It's not something I can say. I'm sorry."

Marth looked as if that was little reassurance.

"I see. I won't pry any further, then," he said, tone betraying the anxiety his words tried to hide.

Minerva barely refrained from biting her lip in agitation.

'Hard as it may be, you've just got to express your feelings to people instead of keeping it in' indeed. 'Sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes,' was it? Not, perhaps, particularly helpful advice, but heartfelt and coming from a place of good intentions. Was she capable of following it? Did she even want to?

Abruptly, Minerva downed all the wine left in her glass. The drink wasn't nearly strong enough for her purposes - indeed, it barely seemed to affect her at all - but even the smallest drops of liquid courage were welcome aids in what she had just decided to do.

"Well then," Minerva breathed deeply, every nerve in her body on edge. Fear gripped her heart, she felt as if ice-cold talons were digging into her flesh. But she had made up her mind, set her course. She could not turn back now.

"If you wish to teach me how to be more open, then there is one emotion I want to express before any other."

Her face was burning. She wondered what Marth must be thinking, hearing her words and seeing how red she was.

"What you said about allowing things to escape my control last night, I have taken to heart. So, here is something I must let out. Something I must confess. I will say what I need to, and it doesn't matter now what happens from there," or so she assured herself, the words repeating in her mind countless times.

She breathed in deeply.

She opened her mouth to speak three words…

… and lost the nerve. Her breath trailed away into silence.

"I…"

She breathed in again. This time. Here, now. She would finally speak her heart.

"I…"

Her hands were shaking. No, her whole body. Her heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of her ribcage. In a way, she supposed, that was what she was trying to do. Saying what she meant to certainly felt like she was tearing her heart from her chest and leaving it in Marth's hands.

"I…"

One last shaky breath. Then she would finally say it.

"I love you!" She gasped out.

And then there was almost silence, filled only by Minerva's heavy, laboured, nervous breathing.

"Th… that's all I wanted to say."

And with everything she could find it in herself to say said, Minerva swept shakily out of her chair and dashed out of the dining hall in borderline panic, leaving Marth to his stunned silence.

His thoughts had shattered like so much stained glass. He could form no coherent sentences, only vague fragments that might have been part of a whole.

Three words which had hit him as hard as any axe blow Minerva could've dealt and left him reeling.

Three words he had been dreaming of hearing for so long.

He pressed a quivering hand to his face and breathed deeply, very nearly steadily, trying to calm himself.

There was simply no way he was going to be able to process what had just happened right now. No amount of patience or breathing or calming would piece his thoughts together.

But running through his brain like a lightning strike was one certainty, one overpowering feeling. One thing he knew he had to do.

And, rising to unsteady feet, Marth ran after Minerva, just as panic-stricken as she had been.

He thundered up the stairs, heedless of who his pounding footsteps might be disturbing, and threw open the door to his and Minerva's room… and found her nowhere in sight. He took a few steps into the room, glancing around for any sign of Minerva's presence, but found nothing. He frowned, and turned around and walked back out.

Where had she gone?

And then he realised, and almost wanted to slap himself.

Taking off again, no less quickly, he ran down the stairs - skipping steps and nearly tripping and falling as he did - whirled around the corner into the hallway, and threw open the door to the stables. There, in one of the stalls, he found Minerva. She was sitting in the straw, Melady wrapped around her, staring intensely at the wall.

Melady noticed his approach long before Minerva did, raising her head and letting out a long, low whine. Marth raised his hands in a gesture of peace and walked past her, stepping in front of Minerva and lowering himself onto his knees. Minerva wrenched her eyes closed and turned her face away.

"Prince Marth… Listen," her voice quivered uncharacteristically as she spoke, "I said too much. Just… forget this evening ever happened. Do me this one kindness, if no other. Or at least, give me no answer. I will be content wishing for what I cannot have. I will be satisfied with… with loving you, even if I am not loved in return. But to hear the words from your lips, I don't know if I could bear it. This one kindness, please."

Marth's eyes turned soft and a little watery, his smile wistful. He reached out with his arms and wrapped them around Minerva, pulling her close to him and hugging her tightly. Minerva reeled back in surprise, letting out an involuntary and uncharacteristic squeak as she did, but Marth leaned forward to follow her, and whispered into her ear:

"I love you too, Minerva. I love you so much. Ever since we first met in Lefcandith, I think. You were so gallant, so strong and fearsome, so sad and kind," he told her, breathlessly.

"... Don't. Don't say such things. Don't be so cruel. Don't lie for my sake, I won't be pitied like that," Minerva denied, pushing him away.

"I've told you no lies," rebuked Marth, his voice trembling, hurt, "I love you, truly! Madly, even! You can't… you can't just say you love me and then… Minerva! I beg you, please accept my love!"

"No," murmured Minerva, "No! I cannot. This is too much. A fantasy, that's all. I can never..." And she fell into silence for an unbearably long period.

"Ah!" A gasp, along with most of the air in his lungs, left Marth's mouth as Minerva, without word or warning, returned his hug with bone-crushing force. She held him so tightly it was as if she feared that she would never have another chance to. She buried her face in his shoulder, and Marth felt droplets of liquid falling.

"Min… Minerva, are you… crying?"

"I'm- I'm sorry, I- this isn't like me. I- I just- I must be dreaming," tears were streaming down her face, plentiful as the raindrops outside, as she buried it in Marth's shoulder.

"If you're dreaming, I am too. And how wonderful a dream it is! Let's never wake," he replied, hugging her tightly.

At length, Minerva's well of tears began to dry up, and she released her grip and pulled back. Marth softly wiped away the last droplets.

"So, er… what comes next? This is a little beyond my experience," coughed Minerva.

"Don't look at me. This is as new to me as to you," replied Marth with a nervous laugh.

They were kneeling now, hands clasped together. Both were blushing furiously, breathtaken and overcome by the thrill of dreams come true. And both had nary the slightest idea of what should come next, neither in the immediate sense nor in the broader sense. In the broader sense, the ramifications of the crown prince of Altea and the crown princess of Macedon, heirs to two quite separate nations, falling in love promised to be bewilderingly complicated. For them, who each represented a body of countless thousands of people, for them, whose lives belonged not solely to them, such selfish things as romance could never be simple.

In the more immediate sense, which at the moment was the one that dominated their minds completely…

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Er, if you'd- you'd please," stuttered Marth, face turning yet more red - if such a thing were possible, "would you, kiss me? That would- that would be the next thing right?"

Minerva, although just as overwhelmed by tempestuous passion as Marth and single-mindedly consumed by elation, at least was capable of collecting herself a little, and she smiled.

"Nothing could please me more," she said, voice low, as she leaned over, threw one arm around Marth's waist and the other holding the back of his head, and pressed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was clumsy. An outside observer, had there been one other than Melady, might've been hard-pressed to properly identify it as a kiss at all. It was the muddled, maladroit fruit of two romantic novices attempting to replicate something they had barely so much as heard of. It was also the most joyous thing either of them had ever experienced.

Melady, almost forgotten, let out a happy rumble that sounded almost like a chuckle, which went completely unheeded by her partner and _her_ partner.

Leaning forward as Minerva was, and distracted as both were, it was inevitable that their balance slipped, and they fell to the floor. Marth landed on his back, Minerva atop him, and at last they broke away from each other, gasping and breathing heavily. Minerva pushed herself up a little, until she was suspended a few centimetres above Marth. Marth reached up and cupped her cheeks in his hand, smiling softly.

"I love you," he repeated breathlessly, "I love you. You're so beautiful," he said, as his hands traced their way down her face, down her neck and shoulders, to her chest, where he began to undo the buttons of her - or, it could be said, his - shirt. The first button slipped through its buttonhole, and the shirt fell away just slightly. Just enough to show the worst of her scars, criss-crossing her chest. Marth traced with his finger a few of them. Minerva shivered at the touch. Softly, gently, Marth pressed his finger against the largest one, a horrible gash that ran across the top of her chest, only barely above her heart, and Minerva recoiled at the touch, looking suddenly repulsed. She flung herself upright, stepping away from Marth, covering herself shamefully with her arms.

Marth promptly followed, babbling apologies the whole way.

To that, Minerva could only shake her head sadly.

"I should be the one apologizing. Again, I've overstepped my bounds. Stop this here. Find someone more suitable. You need only look at me to see," she said, gesturing at her scars, "I'm unsuited to a noble hero. And what am I worth, as a queen? An old warhorse like me? I can't give you what you deserve. I can't be what Macedon needs of me, much less Alt-"

Marth sighed. His patience for Minerva's self-deprecation, by now, had worn as thin as Minerva's patience for his had been that morning. Rather than rebuke or rebutt her again, he simply stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her again, and kissed her, cutting her off mid-sentence.

At length, he pulled back, satisfied that she had lost whatever terrible train of thought she had been following.

"No," he said.

Minerva, hesitantly, smiled slightly, a little bitterly, and shook her head.

"I-" She started, and was interrupted by a gentle slap to her face from Melady's tail. The wyvern snorted, seeming even more fed up than Marth.

Marth couldn't help but laugh.

"Th- this isn't _funny_ , Marth."

"Perhaps not, but it is terribly silly. I've never known you to get cold feet at the eleventh hour before," he said, still holding Minerva tightly, "especially over something so small as this. You think yourself so unworthy? You could never be as unworthy of me as I am unworthy of you. And I suppose if we are both such unseemly souls, we will just have to strive to become worthy, together."

Minerva sighed and narrowed her eyes, biting her lip - a nervous tic that Marth had never seen from her before. Fearing what kind of stress he must be causing her, for some heretofore repressed tic to rise to the surface, he withdrew his arms and stepped back. His resolve faltered with each movement. His dreams seemed dashed, as Minerva continued to refuse his love even as she admitted to desiring it above all else. He could not force the matter.

Tears began to well in his eyes, however much he tried to suppress them. Minerva, catching sight of this, began to feel that much more keenly the misery suffocating her heart, which began to feel as if it was choking the air from her lungs.

Melady snorted angrily. The wyvern reared up behind Minerva, wings outstretched in a display of intimidation, roared, and headbutted Minerva quite harshly.

Minerva, hearing the roar, had barely enough time to register Melady's anger, and was caught completely off-guard by the sudden shove. She toppled over, falling straight onto Marth, who, completely unprepared for the sudden weight hitting him, fell to the ground with her.

The two of them scarcely had time to understand what had happened before Melady crouched over them, and pressed against Minerva's back with her foreclaw, holding the two of them where they were.

Marth's laughter was renewed and redoubled, and even Minerva could but sigh.

"It seems Melady wants me to be with you, Prince Marth," she said, carefully.

"And will you take her counsel?"

Minerva sighed deeply, the sound resembling nothing so much as a thousand crumbling walls.

"Yes," she said simply, an expression of joyous surrender on her face.

Melady, giving an approving rumble, removed her claw, and went back to lying curled up on the stable floor.

Minerva leaned her head down, bringing her face close to Marth's. He could feel her warm breath on his skin, he could see the shine of her eyes, he could feel the weight of her body atop his. She reached up, grabbed him by the lapels, and leaned in even closer. Then she stopped, and looked at Marth with a critical glare.

"... You're covered in straw," she noted.

Marth glanced downwards. Indeed he was. After two falls and all the scuffling about, a not insignificant amount of the straw that blanketed the stable floor had ended up all over his clothes, not to mention under them.

Minerva rose to her feet, and reached down to help Marth to his. He gladly accepted and, once upright, began to brush as much straw off of himself as he could.

"I suppose the stables are... not the place for this," Minerva muttered.

Marth smiled, "I suppose not. Shall we return to our room… my queen?"

"Wha-!" Minerva's face seemed to be on fire; the heat rising to her cheeks rivaled a lava flow, and the blush that covered her face rendered her redder than her hair, "It's-! It's… it's a little early to give me that title."

Marth's face was little different. Saying such a thing had been quite a daring venture.

"I… that is, it may not be sealed just yet, but I do believe I can see what our future holds, and I do think it's just as I said. And if not, we will make it so, won't we? For us, nothing could be impossible."

Minerva, despite herself, could not help but laugh. She did not quite share Marth's confidence in the security of their future, but to hear those words said by him with such conviction, was to believe them, as sure as her cast-iron faith in him.

"Is that so? Well, then, let us be on our way… my king," and, so saying, she stepped forward and scooped Marth into her arms, lifting him right off the ground, one arm beneath his legs, the other supporting his back, the way a knight in shining armour carries a rescued princess.

"What are you-" Marth gasped.

"W- well, you have been talking about how much you admired my strength. I thought I'd use it for you," said Minerva, with an uneven smile.

"I'm capable of walking on my own!" Marth squeaked. But he couldn't deny, it felt nice, being lifted up and held close by Minerva. There in her strong arms, it seemed as if he was in the safest place in the world. The warmth of her body, her comforting grip… Being able to look up and see her blushing face. All told, he loved it.

"But this is… good," he mumbled.

Minerva nodded.

"Then, we'll waste no more time," she declared.

Melady yawned and watched with one sleepy eye as the two left the stables. As soon as they were out of sight, she closed her eyes and quickly drifted to sleep. If Minerva was happy, then so was she.

* * *

Marth fell on the bed with an audible thump, and Minerva quickly followed, crawling on top of him - resuming the position that they had held in the stables in much more comfortable, and much warmer, environs.

Minerva cupped Marth's face in her hands, stroking his flawless skin with her fingers. How beautiful it was, she thought. Like a pristine porcelain doll, fragile and helpless. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Marth was no such thing - optimist and idealist that he was, he still had a heart of iron - but still, looking at his soft face made her want nothing more than to protect him, to shield him from the cruel world and all the terrible things therein that might wish him harm.

"Allow me to be your strength," she whispered, "allow me to be your sword and shield. You need only will it, and I would stand at your side forever."

Marth did not immediately reply. He reached up, undid the buttons of Minerva's shirt, and began again to trace her scars with his fingers. Each one a badge of honour, a mark of failure, proof of her strength, proof of her suffering - dents in the cast-iron of her body. Looking at her body so marred by war - beautified by war - made him sure of nothing more than that she deserved all the love in the world. And if she had not that love inside her, he would love enough for the both of them.

"Allow me to be your tenderness," he, at length, whispered back, "allow me to be a voice for all the feelings you haven't the words for. Nothing could take me away from you, I will never leave your side."

Minerva leaned in closer, her lips almost touching Marth's. She was breathing a little harder, each breath shorter, faster.

Marth wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"Seal it with a kiss?" He said.

She did not answer, and did not need to. There was no more need, now, to use such clumsy things as words to communicate.

In the distance, lightning struck, and the boom of thunder rolled across the storm-wracked countryside.

* * *

Elsewhere, the innkeeper and his wife were talking about their suspicions regarding the prince of Altea and the princess of Macedon, and what they might be doing alone in their room. The same suspicions they had had the night before, and the night before that.

Suspicions that were, perhaps, a little closer to the truth tonight.

* * *

Minerva rose with the sun. Bleary-eyed, she hauled herself upright, and gazed sleepily out the window at the near-cloudless bronze-and-blue dawn sky. She sat there motionless for a while, her drowsy mind not quite processing what she was seeing.

Some minutes later, she realized with a start that the skies were clear. She could see the sun, feel the sunlight's warmth on her face.

The storm was over.

She glanced down beside her, where Marth lay sleeping, smiling happily. Having joyful dreams, no doubt. She placed a hand on his bare chest and felt it rise and fall, felt his heart beating, while her other hand ran through his hair.

It was funny, really. When she had first arrived, she had been eager to leave. Their stay at the inn had been an unwelcome digression, which she had scarcely been able to contain her annoyance with.

Now, she thought, she might like to stay a little longer. Certainly, she was in no rush. They had all the time in the world.

Minerva lay back down, held Marth close, and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

 **And now that that's done, tell me, what have we learned? It's time to review the lessons I've been taught by writing this fic:**

 **1\. I need to plan things more thoroughly before I start writing. Making it up as I go along results in a lack of cohesion due to the amount of time I take to write anything, among other problems.**

 **2\. When I set aside time to write, it shouldn't be late at night when I would rather be in bed.**

 **3\. I SHOULD NOT TAKE AN ENTIRE YEAR (AND THEN SOME) TO WRITE THREE FUCKING CHAPTERS**

 **speaking of, it's been more than a year and this is still the only fic for this pairing on AO3. RAREPAIR HELL! RAREPAIR HELL! RAREPAIR HELL!**


End file.
